The centurions had no such compunction. With the steep slope affording their pila extra distance, they had to cause the maximum number of casualties before the Pontic infantry hit. 'Ready javelins!' came the order when the enemy was about fifty paces away. 'Aim long!'

Closing his left eye, Romulus focused on a bearded peltast who was slightly ahead of his companions. Carrying an oval shield which had been painted white, he bore a larger than normal rhomphaia, and looked well able to wield it. Remembering the man he had fought in Alexandria, Romulus could imagine the injuries the warrior might cause. Gripping his pilum hard, he drew back his right arm and waited for the command.

Every man was doing the same.

'RELEASE!' bellowed the centurions in a loud chorus.

Up went the javelins in a dark shower of metal and wood. With the steep drop of the slope offering only blue sky behind them, they looked quite beautiful flying through the air. The Pontic infantry did not look up, though. Determined to close with the legionaries, they broke into a sprint.

Romulus studied the peltast he had aimed at, wondering if his aim had been true. An instant later, the man went down with a pilum through the chest, and he cheered. There was no way of knowing, but Romulus had a strong feeling that it was his hit. Packed as dense as a shoal of fish, the enemy were running without their shields raised, which meant that every javelin struck down or injured a warrior. They were so numerous, though, that a couple of hundred fewer made little difference. Even when a second volley of pila had landed, there were few discernible gaps in their lines. This made Romulus feel incredulous, and fearful. Now it was down to the gladii that he and his comrades all carried. That, and their Roman courage.

He began to beat his sword off the side of his scutum.

Grinning, Petronius did the same. Others emulated them, drumming their iron blades faster and faster to create a terrifying din for the Pontic troops to approach.

'Come on, you bastards!' Romulus screamed, desperate to come to blows with their foes. There had been enough waiting. It was time to fight.

Every centurion who wasn't facing the enemy cavalry was in the front rank. Twenty steps from Romulus and Petronius, so too was the aquilifer. Atop the wooden staff he bore was the silver eagle, the legion's most important possession, and a symbol which encapsulated the unit's courage and pride. With both arms holding up his standard, the aquilifer could not defend himself, which meant that the legionaries on each side had to fight twice as hard. Yet their positions were highly sought after. To lose the eagle in battle was the greatest disgrace any legion could suffer, and men would perform heroic acts to prevent it. For the legate to place it in such a position showed how desperate the struggle would be. Although Romulus had been forced to join the Twenty-Eighth, he too would shed every last drop of his blood in its defence.

'Close order!' roared the officers. 'Front ranks, shields together! Those behind, shields up!'

Shuffling together until their shoulders nearly brushed, the legionaries obeyed. They had done this so many times: on training grounds and in war. It was second nature. Clunk, clunk, clunk went their scuta, a metallic, comforting noise. Their bodies were now covered at the front from their heads to their lower calves. All that projected forward from the solid wall were the sharp points of their gladii. The soldiers behind were also protected from enemy missiles by the wall of raised shields.

The Pontic infantry were almost upon them. It was time for their javelins. Hurled indiscriminately, the enemy missiles filled the air over the two sides for an instant before landing among the legionaries with a familiar whistling noise. Thanks to the strength of their shields' construction, few men were hurt. Their scuta were peppered with spears, though, which rendered them impossible to use. Frantically, they ripped at the wooden shafts in an attempt to dislodge them. It was too late. With an almighty crash, the two sides met.

At once Romulus' vision narrowed to what was directly in front. Everything else was irrelevant. It was just him, Petronius and the legionaries nearby who mattered. A wiry grey-haired peltast carrying a rhomphaia with a notched blade aimed himself at Romulus. Perhaps forty years old, the muscles on his deeply tanned arms and legs were bunched like cords of wood. Baring his teeth, the veteran drove his oval shield forward at Romulus, trying to knock him over. With his left leg braced behind his scutum, Romulus took the impact without difficulty. Stupid move, he thought. I'm heavier than the fool by half his weight at least.

That wasn't the peltast's plan.

Even as they grappled, pushing their shields against one another, his rhomphaia came hooking overhead. Meeting the top of Romulus' bronze-bowl helmet, it easily split the metal in two, cutting a deep wound in his scalp. The force of the blow made Romulus see stars. He staggered, his legs buckling beneath him. With a snarl of fury, the peltast tugged on the handle of his rhomphaia to free it from the helmet. Fortunately, the blade stuck for a moment. Half-dazed and in absolute agony, Romulus knew that he had to act at once, or the peltast's next blow would spread his brains all over the hard ground. Instinct made him drop to his knees, pulling the rhomphaia over the edge of his scutum and away from his opponent, making it more difficult to retain a good grip. A loud curse told him that his tactic had been successful.

More importantly, though, he could see around the edges of their two shields to the peltast's unprotected calves. Reaching forward with his gladius, Romulus severed the large tendon on the outside of his enemy's left knee. It wasn't a mortal blow, but it didn't have to be. No man could receive an injury like that and stay standing. With a loud scream, the peltast let go of his rhomphaia, which had just come free of Romulus' helmet. He fell awkwardly, landing on his side, but managed to keep his shield in front of him. Pulling a dagger, he lunged at Romulus' sword arm.

In slow motion, Romulus leaned out of the way. This was no rookie, he thought dazedly. Blood was now running down his forehead and into his eyes, making it difficult to see. The crippled peltast swept his knife forward again, but did not have the reach to harm Romulus. That was no relief to him. It would only be a heartbeat before another Pontic warrior jumped over to fill the gap. He had to stand up. Dragging in a breath, Romulus got to his feet, lifting his sword and scutum. Desperate now, his enemy made a final attempt to stab him in the leg.

Summoning all his strength, Romulus stamped down on the peltast's outstretched arm with his hobnailed sandal. He crushed it to the ground, and there was a dull crack as the bones broke against a protruding rock. With a keening cry of pain, the man released his dagger and his shield, leaving himself defenceless. Romulus took a step forward and stabbed him through the neck, feeling the blade grate off the cartilage of his windpipe as it slid home. The peltast's screams stopped abruptly, and his body went into a spasm of twitching as he died. Blood sprayed all over the front of Romulus' scutum as he pulled out his sword.

He had enough sense remaining to look up at once. Romulus knew that his chances of staying alive in the next few moments were down to pure luck, and the gods' goodwill. Concussed, he was in no state to fight any skilled opponent. Luckily, the burly peltast who came leaping over his comrade's corpse was so eager that he tripped, sprawling in a tangle of limbs at Romulus' feet. It was a simple case of shoving his blade in on the right side of the man's back, between the lowest ribs. 'It's a good way of killing,' Brennus had told him once. 'Puts the man out of action at once. It's a mortal blow too. Cuts the liver, you see. The blood loss from that will kill very fast.' Romulus had never used the ruse until now. Gratitude filled him yet again for the skills he'd learned from the huge Gaul. Without them, he would never have survived his first months as a gladiator – and Brennus' advice was still useful.